Before becoming a story,
she was just a girl whose
father was a storyteller.
Moments of pills clinging to
metal chains around jeans -
- “Hey, tell me a story.
Or maybe just yours.
You've jumped off too many cliffs;
drenched in sweet chapters.”
And you've wondered what else
of that girl infront of you is sweet.
Broken milkshake glasses and
orange peels on the floor -
footprints of coffee.
She has lost her throne,
for she knows too many queens
who lost themselves in
forests of regrets and crowns
of ink of dead letters.
And when they ask you,
You say -
“She plants poetry,
trying to kill herself silently -
Yet when you taste her,
you'll know the razors I've tasted.”
Today, when your daughter
was drinking orange juice,
you thought of the orange peels
and then, you looked at your
bloody hands -
Devils over demons.
Rivers over lakes.
Didn't she taste like
blueberries?
But you liked cigarettes.
And so she smoked.
Twenty years later,
you took your daughter to where
her mother had planted her poetry.
She said, you're a storyteller -
Drops of berries clinging to you.
She smiled and you
saw the razor marks that you
thought only you been scarred with.
“Dad, coffee from your cup
tastes like mom.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because I've tastes the knives
in your drawer.”
She takes out a cigarette;
burns it and smoke blows out of her mouth.
~Sampurna
YOU ARE READING
Ink And Echoes
Poetry♚ ❛ Juliet, Tell me what is it like to vanquish - When you tossed the coin, And stepped on the battleground, With the accent of swords. Still you stand, Hands dripping of sin. In search of Romeo, You killed, And killed, And died. ❜ { Highest rank in...
